In that the planet Blito-P3, Earth, has been found to possess elements of criminality inimical to the best interests and culture of Voltar, In that the landing of troops upon it would risk further contamination of the Confederacy, In that it is our Royal command that we never hear of the planet, Blito-P3, Earth, again, The planet is officially declared to be a nonplanet. It is therefore proclaimed that said planet DOES NOT EXIST AND IT WILL NOT EXIST FROM THIS DAY FORWARD FOR VOLTAR, FOREVER! They read it. It was the only way out. They began to nod. A surge of elation went through Heller. He had won! He had won for Izzy and Bang-Bang and Babe and five billion people. He lowered his head so they would not see his grin and hastily transferred it all to the proclamation in neat script. They signed above the Royal signature. Now came his coup de grace. THIS was the reason he had raked in Noble Stuffy and appointed a Censor. Solemnly he looked at the ex-publisher. "Now we come to your vital part in this. Noble Arthrite Stuffy, His Majesty never wants to hear of Earth again. You therefore must eradicate every mention of these recent riots and upsets in every newssheet morgue." Noble Stuffy gawped. "This proclamation is YOURS to put in force! You must eradicate every reference to Blito-P3 in every book ind text, on every map-a clean sweep." "Everywhere?" said round-eyed Stuffy. "Everywhere," said Heller. "And it is your sworn duty to prevent all future mention of that planet anywhere. AND THAT INCLUDES EVEN THIS PROCLAMATION!" "Oh, dear!" said Noble Stuffy. "And when," Heller continued in a hard voice, "anybody asks you what happened to Blito-P3, you are going to flinch and look sad and say it was so unspeakable it had to be censored and forbid them to even breathe its name again. Understood?" Noble Arthrite Stuffy nodded numbly. From the look in Heller's eye he also understood Heller would probably personally break his neck if he did not comply. So he did! And to this day, that Royal proclamation lies in a lead case in the office of the Royal Historian and Censor.

Don't doubt me. / have seen it! The Royal Historian and Censor, my great-uncle Lord Invay, was out to lunch! Now, how's that, dear reader? Does it make me the investigative reporter of all time or doesn't it? The answer is yes, yes, yes! I knew you would agree!

BLITO-P3-EARTH-EXISTS!

AND THE PLACE WHERE IT SHOULD BE IN THE INVASION TIMETABLE IS BLANK!

Isn't that monstrous? And if it hadn't been removed, it would be scheduled for invasion just a few years from now.

THE PEOPLE OF VOLTAR MUST KNOW ABOUT THIS!

THEY'RE BEING DEPRIVED OF A PERFECTLY GOOD PLANET TO INVADE!

Despite what Soltan Gris said at the very beginning of his confession about Heller being the hero of it, I must solemnly advise you that this isn't true! The actual villain of this whole disgraceful affair is NO OTHER THAN JETTERO HELLER! He has been lurking behind the scenes, POSING as a hero, when in actual, sober, solemn fact, JETTERO HELLER WAS THE VILLAIN, DOUBLE-DYED, ALL THE TIME! JETTERO HELLER was the one who instigated the greatest cover-up in ALL VOLTAR HISTORY! That makes him the villain. Right? Well, enough said. You better make your voice heard to remedy this scandal. There is still time to get at it right on schedule!

PEOPLE OF VOLTAR, INSIST ON ADHERENCE TO TRADITION!

OUR ANCESTORS DETERMINED THAT EARTH SHOULD BE INVADED ON SCHEDULE.

My message to you: SWEEP ASIDE THIS COVER-UP AND INVADE!

I finished the book up to here and before I wrapped it up to send it to the publisher, I read it all to Shafter (Hound wouldn't listen because he saw it had some poetry in it). When I got all done, expecting to see Shafter absolutely stunned, he didn't stun. He laid down his wrench– I had had to follow him around while he did routine inspections which were behind-and he looked at me and said, "Young Monte, for the love of comets, you've left so many strings untied it looks like the wiring when you get to fooling with an engine and I don't stop you. You completely left out what you found on your visit to Manco and you haven't said a blasted thing about all the trouble we had over Relax Island. The book is fine so far, but you've left it at ten thousand feet. Land it, boy, land it. Finish it up in style!" So, as Shafter is my best critic-the only one I have so far-I sweated and slaved and added an "Envoi." All for you, dear reader, so you won't be left ten thousand feet up with no landing in sight. Read on. Be careful not to crash! Readers are valuable!

Hightee Heller, after two weeks assisting me dig up old papers and logs-but spending most of her time rambling around old haunts on Manco-had to return to the planet Voltar to keep a long-arranged engagement to appear at a benefit on Hightee Heller Day, an annual event. At the shuttleport where she was catching the deluxe spaceliner for Voltar, she gave me a pat on the shoulder and a motherly kiss on the cheek and said, "Now, don't forget to lay the real stress of your book on my brother's later life. As a writer you must see that he gets good press: he's FAR too reticent about himself. So ta-ta now. I'm leaving you in good hands. It's been fun. Good-bye." As the shuttle took off upward and I waved, I was thinking that it might have been just fun for her-it had been deadly serious hard work for me and it would continue! I had almost worn my thumb off clicking copies 'of logs and documents, my ears ached with the high whine of copying recording strips. And while I had the story down to the end of the last fatal war council about Earth (and had yet to spend many hard weeks writing what you have just so quickly read), I as yet did not have the final tag ends all tied neatly. How hara, how very hard I have worked for you, dear reader! The chauffeur was waiting as arranged by Hightee, and I was flown back to the vast estates of the Duke and Duchess of Manco where we had been staying. The estates embrace a whole range of wild mountains and a thousand square miles of fertile plain adjacent to a city-provincial, but three times the size of New York-named Atalanta. We landed in the Rose Park and I was in luck. The Duchess, just that minute, was entering a salon. She was tall and blonde and, despite being in her late middle age and despite children, quite beautiful. The years had been very kind to the one-time Countess Krak. "Hello, Monte," she said. "You look quite worn. Did Hightee get off all right?" I nodded. The Duchess of Manco usually made me feel a little bit tongue-tied and awkward: she moved with an easy grace and her gray-blue eyes looked at you with an impact. She was dressed in leather today and had probably been out supervising things around the estate. "Your Grace," I managed, "if you will give me a little time, there are some loose ends I haven't tied up." She smiled. "Well, come in and sit down and fire away. I need to catch my breath, myself. My latest grandchild has been running everyone's legs off all day. He's been into everything on the place! He's only seven but he takes a dozen people to keep him from an early demise. Exactly like his grandfather." And she went on to tell me, very proudly, how they'd just now fished him out of an irrigation lake when his self-built boat had capsized. His mother had evidently taken him home to the city where his father, Heller's younger son, was governor. The park day salon was nice and cool, very rustic, all of native stone with an actual fireplace. You could have drilled a company in it. The walls were lined with paintings. There were Jettero's three sons, all middle-aged now but in the paintings still boys: two were shown in the uniforms of the Royal Academy and the third in the helmet of a speed flier. Their own daughter was shown, painted as costumed in some school play: she looked startlingly like Hightee, but she had something in the way she stood that was definitely Krak. The Duchess called for some cool drinks and rambled on about her grandchildren, of whom she now had six. The eldest of these, at forty, had just ambitiously taken on the stewardship of the Krak estates in northern Atalanta, since he would inherit the title, and was apparently wrestling at the moment with a flood. I was not very attentive. I was trying to get a word in edgewise and get my story tied up. I had a little list. I peeked at it and in a lull, I said, "Could you tell me whatever happened to Mister Calico?" She laughed and gave a small, sharp whistle. In about thirty seconds a calico cat came tearing into the room and leaped up on her lap. I was stunned. "Is this Mister Calico?" She laughed again, for'the cat had looked up search-ingly at me and then, deciding I hadn't meant it, went back to lapping at the sparklewater canister she was holding for him. Then she looked a little sad. "About ten years after we returned from Earth, Jettero and Mister Calico were taking a walk up in the mountains. You realize I never did get Jettero to lead a nice, safe life, but in this case he was simply limbering up after a long session in Palace City. They weren't even hunting. And Mister Calico spotted a lepertige! He tackled it head on! Imagine jumping on a ton of lepertige! But that was Mister Calico. Before Jettero could stop him, he'd come off second best." She sighed. Then she pointed. "That's the lepertige pelt right over there by the fireplace. It's pretty ratty for this room, I know, but Jettero would never let me throw it away. And that's what happened to Mister Calico." The cat in her lap looked up at the name again. She said, "However, once every generation since that time, after the old one is dead, another cat gets born in the litters that answers to the name of Mister Calico without ever being told. This is the tenth one! "You know," she continued proudly, "since we brought these cats to Manco, there isn't a single vermin left in the province. I just hope these felines don't take it into their heads to wipe out the lepertiges!" I had my next item. "There were five ships sent from Earth to Calabar. Did they ever arrive?" "Oh, Faht Bey's crew. Oh, yes. They operated the Fleer repair base on Calabar for some years and then retired and went home. That reminds me, I have a postcard here someplace I haven't answered. He retired as postmaster in some little town in Flisten and his daughter got the post. She's half Turkish, you know. I must get a new social secretary. When you finish your book, you wouldn't care for the job, would you, Monte?" I cringed. These elderly people were all alike. They didn't think investigative reporting was serious business! Well, I'd show them! "Now," I said, ignoring the offer sternly, "when all those criminals were amnestied, was there any social upheaval? I mean, a new crime wave?" "Oh, what would make you think that? Factually, they all seemed to think they owed Mortiiy something and most of them reformed. Let me see, it was so long ago. Oh, yes. Only one percent were ever apprehended again and executed. It was a period that was almost crimeless. I remember a party now at the end of the first year. It was sort of my amnesty, you know. But since that time the state actually hasn't had any crime waves, as you call them. Even Slum City got cleaned up." "Well, that's fine," I said. "Now could you tell me if you ever, in any way, heard any more about a man called Izzy Epstein?" She looked at me a little strangely. Then she shrugged and sent a footman off. He came back presently with a metal box. She opened it, took out some sheets and set the box down on the floor. I would have loved to see what was in the rest of that box but she only offered me the sheets she held. Then just as quickly she took them back. "I forgot," she said, "that you wouldn't be able to read English" The sheets were very, very old and yellowed and she handled them very gently. She put them back in the box and brought out a piece of translating paper in not much better shape. She gave me that. I took an immediate photograph of the cover note and translation, and I give them to you in full: